


want who you want (boys and boys and girls and girls)

by visiblemarket



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV), Constantine (TV)
Genre: John Constantine Kissing Dudes 2K14, M/M, all right all right all right, and here we are, blindfolds in a non-sexual way, congrats on the sex you two, jake peralta hitting on dudes 2k15, light bondage to be specific, otp: bisexual human disasters, slight kinky fuckery because yeah
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-23
Updated: 2015-02-23
Packaged: 2018-03-14 14:39:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3414419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/visiblemarket/pseuds/visiblemarket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Dammit, John!” he said, stuffing the tie in his pocket. "What are you doing after this?"</i>
</p><p>  <i>John chuckled, and took a drink from the glass which was, somehow, back in his hand. He leaned in, close enough that Jake had to resist the instinct to step back. “Well, <i>you</i>, ideally,” he said, low and grinning. “If you’re up for it, that is."</i></p><p>  <i>Jake grinned back. “Well, all right all right all right." </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	want who you want (boys and boys and girls and girls)

**Author's Note:**

> NBD just a fic about a bisexual human disaster who’s bffs with a guy who loves to cook and a badass Latina lady who wears a lot of leather jackets. 
> 
> Or like. Two such bisexual human disasters.
> 
> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

“Ohhh man, Terry is going to _kill_ me."

The hot, focused mouth working its way around his neck hesitates. “What?”

“My sergeant. If he—“ a firm thigh grinds up against his hard-on. “ _Nice_ ,” he says, like an idiot, then tries to focus. “If he—lewd behavior in an alley, y’know, it’s a little— _ooo_ kay,” he gets out, as an arm slips under his jacket and around his waist, and drags him forward. He gets a moment of cautious but intent eye contact to decide whether he wants to be kissed again (hell yeah he does) before it happens: there’s a lot of tongue involved, more teeth than he’s really into, and the weird, achy scratch of stubble against his already over-sensitized lips. _God_.

His hips buck up pretty much on their own and are met with a slow, steady roll and Jake thinks, very clearly, very suddenly, that even if Terry, or Holt, or literally anyone else on the squad _does_ walk out of the bar within the next ten seconds and sees him dry-humping someone he met like half an hour ago, well, his death from _total embarrassment_ may, in fact, be worth it.

He reaches out and grabs at John’s ass, partly to pull him closer but mostly, to be honest, just to grab John’s ass, and lets all thoughts of how the hell he got here fly straight out of his head.

*

How the hell he got there: darts. And alcohol. But mostly darts.

He wasn’t actually that drunk.

Just buzzed.

Buzzed, and bored, and debating whether or it was super lame to sit at the bar nursing a drink while _literally everyone else in the room_ , no, probably, _in the entire borough_ , was having a better time than him, when some skinny guy in a trench coat leaned over the counter next to him and waved down the bartender. 

“Whiskey, yeah? And, uh…” he glanced down the bar, and smirked. “One of whatever she’s drinkin’ to the lady in leather."

“Don’t bother,” Jake found himself saying, which was weird, because watching Rosa turn down skeezy guys in bars was always amazing. Maybe it’s just ‘cause the guy didn't look that skeezy, just generally kind of...rough: disheveled and exhausted and possibly like he’d been beaten up recently. Jake maybe felt bad.

The guy glanced over at him, blinked, and then turned. “Hmm?"

“She’s got a boyfriend, man. Don’t waste your money."

“Does she, now?” he said; the bartender’d brought him his whiskey, and he’d taken a slow sip. “Is that you?"

“What?” 

The guy had smirked a little harder. “You the boyfriend?"

Jake snorted and downed the rest of his beer. 

“That a no?"

“That is a noooo,” Jake said, because god, Rosa? Rosa would eat him alive. And like, in a good way, but he is so not her type. Though to be honest he wasn’t sure what Rosa’s type was: hot, usually. Beyond that, no clue. 

The guy was still looking at him. He was grinning now, a grin Jake couldn't help but recognize as kinda dangerous. Something familiar and probably uncalled for stirred in his stomach (and, to be honest, below that), and he glanced down. When he looked back, the guy was tipping his glass in Jake’s direction. “Good to know. Ta, mate."

Jake waved his empty beer bottle in his direction. “Ta, stranger,” he said, not making much of an effort on the accent, which was British, and weird, and the guy, who was also British, and weird, laughed.

“John,” he said, offering his hand, and Jake took it: John’s palm was cool, wet from the condensation on his drink, and rough enough to make Jake’s skin tingle a little from the friction.

“Jake.” 

“Well,” John said, letting go of his hand. “Ta, Jake."

“Taaaa,” he drawled, because it was funny, somehow. He went to take another drink from his beer. Which was empty. Juuuust great. He was about to try and catch the bartender’s eye when he felt a hand press lightly to the small of his back. 

“On me, mate,” John said, and Jake twisted his neck to look up at him. 

“Well, if you insist,” he enunciated, mcconaugheying it up. John laughed again, making the universal “another, please, for my weird new friend, and put it on my tab” gesture at the bartender with one hand, while the other remained, light and strangely warm, against Jake’s back. 

“So tell me, _Jake_ ,” John said, leaning very close over Jake’s shoulder. “What’s a bloke do for fun in a place like this?"

Jake tipped his head back. Their faces were very close, and Jake could smell the alcohol on his breath.

“You ever play darts?"

*

John had probably played darts before.

John had probably played darts a lot.

John was very good at darts.

Very good at darts to the point that he _attracted a crowd_ , including Boyle, to watch him totally _annihilate_ Jake, and grin like a total dick while doing so. After watching him make a couple of very successful over-the-shoulder shots, Jake decided to put his foot down.

“Okay okay okay,” he said, waving his hands and forgetting that he had an almost full bottle of beer in one of them. It was considerably less full when he finished waving. “How ‘bout this. You, blindfolded. Bet you can’t do it blindfolded."

“Blindfolded, eh?” John leered at him. “What’ll you give me?"

“Fifty bucks,” he said. 

“Sixty."

“Seventy,” Jake said, and found Boyle tugging at his sleeve.

“Jake, you don’t have seventy—"

“Bup bup bup,” he said, easing out of Boyle’s grip. “C’mon, _matey_ ,” he drawled, and John narrowed his eyes.

“It’s _mate_ , all right? ‘m not a bloody pirate."

“Up for it or not, _mate_?"

“Oh, I’m up for it,” John said, smirking, _again_. What was with this guy? Was he _out_ to drive Jake nuts? “Got a blindfold?"

“As a matter of fact…” he said, yanking the tie off his neck in a move that he hoped looked a lot smoother than it felt though, given his luck, probably not. He heard Gina’s “lol Jake” hyena laugh in the background, so, yeah. 

John grinned and ducked his head, shutting his eyes as Jake wrapped the tie across them.

“How many fingers am I holding up?” he said, when he was done.

“None,” John said, too quickly, and Jake frowned. “Both of your hands're still on my face, mate."

Jake removed them with a jolt. “Well...all right,” he said, shaking his head, dropping his hands to John’s shoulders to guide him around, and leaving them there for maybe longer than he needed to. “Go for it, Robin Hood,” he said, giving him a friendly-ish squeeze before pulling away. 

John rolled his shoulders in preparation. “Robin Hood’s bow and arrows, chief. How do you want it?”

Jake blinked. “What?" 

“Double-bull?"

“Sounds like what you’re full of,” Jake answered, automatically holding up his hand; Boyle high-fived him, because he was a good friend like that, and also because it was an awesome burn.

John snorted, and then threw, casually, with no apparent consideration at all. And he made it, of course, sharp black dart through the tiny red circle at the center of the dartboard. Applause went up around them and John grinned, because yeah, he could probably tell, without even removing the blindfold to check, that he’d made it.

“Bet you can’t do that again,” said Jake, ignoring Boyle’s very loud throat clear.

“Oh yeah?” John turned his head; his eyes were still covered but he seemed to be staring at Jake anyway. “How much?"

“Double or nothing.” 

“Hundred and forty quid on my making it again?"

“You are _on_!” Jake said, having no idea how much a quid was and what kind of conversion rates were involved. 

John threw again, and Jake didn’t even know where he’d gotten the extra dart; the first one hadn’t been pulled out. The second, of course, managed to pierce it straight through and split the shaft. 

“ _Boom_!” Jake found himself shouting, throwing his hands in the air because _damn, son_. There were cheers, and laughter, and John turned around. He pulled the tie off his head and tossed it back to Jake, who was still laughing off the second-degree adrenaline high. “Dammit, John!” he said, stuffing the tie in his pocket. "What are you doing after this?"

John chuckled, and took a drink from the glass which was, somehow, back in his hand. He leaned in, close enough that Jake had to resist the instinct to step back. “Well, _you_ , ideally,” he said, low and grinning. “If you’re up for it, that is."

Jake grinned back. “Well, all right all right all right."

*

So that’s how the hell he got here, where _here_ is making out with, and grinding up _hard_ against, a blond British jerk. It’s ridiculous, like he's fifteen years old and trying to get to third base with Amanda Agassi at Peter Collville’s sister’s sweet sixteen party, except in this case he’s probably not about to throw up pink punch, and also, they’re behind a dumpster, which at least provides some cover from anyone who might walk out of the bar any minute now.

Well, they start off _behind_ the dumpster; they end up, after a particularly enthusiastic thrust on his part and a complete lack of resistance on John’s, against the dumpster. They hit it hard enough to make a harsh, echoing _clang_ ring all the way to the street, and they break apart, a little shocked and a lot breathless. John blinks up at him and then starts _laughing_ , almost immediately, and Jake can’t help but join in, at that point.

“Sorry,” he pants, still only half way to catching his breath, but he does feel kind of bad.

“’s all right,” John says, and leans up, as if to resume the making out.

Jake pulls back. “No, y’know what? C’mon,” he says, hooking his fingers in John’s belt, with a boldness that’s usually not part of his M.O. It’s like John brings that out in him or something.

John leers and trails him. “You takin’ me into custody, Officer?"

“What?! No.” Jake shakes his head. “And it’s Detective, actually. How did you—"

“You’re wearin’ a gun, mate."

“This is America. Lots of people have guns."

“Lot of people've got one of these, have they?” John taps at Jake’s badge, which he’s still got clipped to his belt.

“Well, yeah, actually,” he says, and John rolls his eyes.

“Where're we goin’, then?"

“Back to my place."

“Oh, your place?” John leans into him, so closely that his erection presses into Jake’s hip. Again. “You keeping the hundred and forty you owe me back there?"

“Yeaaaah,” Jake says. “ _About_ that…” 

“Oh, you're all out, are you?” John wraps a hand around the back of his head. He smells not-so-faintly of cigarettes, though Jake’s yet to see him smoke one. “ _Such_ a shame."

“I know, right? Guess I’ll have to—“ _give you something else_ , he doesn’t have to say, because John smirks, and draws him into another kiss.

*

They make it back to Jake’s apartment in fits and starts, with the occasional make-out sesh or seven whenever they hit a particularly dark-looking doorframe. If anyone in Jake’s apartment building has ever had a half-way decent opinion of him, that’s totally blown.

But it’s fine, Jake thinks.

It’s fine, it’s great, it’s awesome, all the way up the stairs to his apartment and through the confusion of trying to get his door open while being groped against it with really intense enthusiasm. 

It’s fantastic, really, all the way to the point when they’re rubbing off against each other in Jake’s obviously unmade bed and John whispers, no, John _growls_ , “How d’you want it?” in his ear, and Jake 100% almost actually comes in his pants, like an actual sixteen year old. 

But he holds it together.

He does.

He is an adult.

“Ah,” he says, remembering there’d been a question. His brain whirls through his admittedly not epic list of experiences. “Okay, I gotta be honest with you,” he says. “It’s been a while since I—"

“Had sex?"

“I’ve had sex!” he says, a little quickly, and John looks slightly taken aback. “I mean. With a guy. I’ve had sex. It’s just…not…since, like, the academy.” Since right before the academy, because that had not been a reputation he was super-eager to foster at the academy. “It’s been a while. Is what I’m saying. And you seem like you...” John’s smiling up at him again, running his palms up and down Jake’s back, and Jake can feel himself blushing. He ducks his head. “May have more. Experience. In this area. Sexytimes-wise. Ah…” he shrugs. “You may need to…walk me through it,” he finishes, trying not to cringe.

“Walk you through it?” John’s looking up at him, brown eyes slightly wider than before, but otherwise still mostly amused. “You ever fuck a bloke, mate?"

“Yes! _Well_ …” Jake cocks his head. “I mean, are we talking full-on penetration, or, like—"

“Oh, Christ,” John groans, and sags back against the mattress. His hands stay on Jake’s hips, though. “You got condoms? Lube?"

“Of _course I do_!” Jake says, a little indignant, but come on. Everyone’s got those. Well, not everyone, but he does! He reaches over toward his night table, almost kneeing John in the sternum in the processes, and retrieves said items without further incident. He tosses them down on the mattress. 

“Well, that’s a bloody good start, I guess,” John says, sitting up and dragging their bodies together, like he’s going to kiss him again.

“But—"

“We’ll get to it, we’ll get to it, just—“ it’s a quick, almost distracted peck, and then there’s another, and another, and Jake kinda just goes with it, wrapping his arms around John’s waist as they kneel on the bed together.

“Shirts off,” John says, eventually, and off they go. John’s got a lot of tattoos; Jake’s not sure if he’s into that, but he can’t say he’s surprised. They kiss some more, and it gets decidedly sloppier, and Jake can say with complete certainty that he is super into _that_ , so much so that he can’t help but tackle John back down onto the mattress again.

John squirms a little and Jake is suddenly determined to keep him still; pins him down, hands on his shoulders, and John lets out a low, breathy “ _Yeah_ ” in response. Which, okay, well, _yeah_. Yeah, Jake can do that; usually he’s had that done to him, but, like, he can _adapt_. He grabs one of John’s wrists, then the other, and pins them both to the mattress above his head.

“Good?” he ventures, as if John’s shiver beneath him didn’t tip him off.

“Oh, aren’t _you_ a clever one, _Detective_."

“Yeah, yeah,” Jake says, preening a little, but just internally. “You’re talking me through this, remember?” 

John, whose eyes are shut and whose breathing has shallowed, nods slowly. “Talkin' you through it."

And he does: belts are unbuckled and flies are unzipped and Jake nearly twists an ankle trying to get his jeans off; lube and condoms are retreived from where they’ve rolled over them, Jake’s spare handcuffs (yes, Jake has spare handcuffs; no, they aren’t for recreational purposes, except for when they are, but mostly, they are not) are fished out. Jake uses a copious amount of lube, partly out of concern, partly because he’s kind of distracted by the blond, British jerk he’s now got handcuffed to his bed frame and who keeps telling him to _get on with it, already_.

Which he does, he does, he totally does get on with it. 

He fucks into John with shallow, cautious thrusts at first, but John is so clearly _not here for that_ , and swears _louder_ once Jake really starts going for it. Jake doesn’t mind. Jake’s kind of into it, kind of likes knowing for sure that he’s doing it right. Not that, like, he’s ever really in doubt.

But it’s nice, and it’s even nicer when John goes all quiet and tense and _whiny_ , all desperate and unfocused. Jake reaches a hand between them and jerks him off, which is something he has considerably more experience with, and John seems to appreciate it: comes quick, with a low “ _Fuck_ ,” that he half-muffles against his own arm. 

Jake comes not long after that, and it’s not quite the most _spectacular_ orgasm he’s ever had with another person, but it’s pretty damn great, good enough that he’s slow and reluctant to pull out. He does, though. Does the bare minimum to clean up (that _was_ kind of a lot of lube) and looks back at John, who’s looking at him very intently, with something vaguely approaching a smile playing across his lips.

“I should probably get the, y’know, keys to those,” Jake says, gesturing at the handcuffs. John’s shrug is somewhat aborted by the fact that his hands are cuffed up above his head, but it’s not like that lasts long, because he’s managed to get them open before Jake’s even remembered where said keys are. Jake blinks at him as he hands the cuffs back. “It’s probably not a _great_ thing that you can do that."

“’s a great thing for me."

“Yeah, I bet.” Jake laughs, because what else can you do, really? He lies back down next to John, who’s rubbing gingerly at his wrists. "Well,” he says, looking him over more carefully: John’s hair, which had started out mussed, is all-out catastrophic now. He’s still panting and flushed with exertion, pink behind numerous tattoos, sweaty, and Jake…well, Jake kind of has to kiss him again, and does. John’s mouth, and neck, and down his chest, and over his ribs. Jake hesitates there, traces his fingers over the black shapes tattooed down John's side. 

“'With no fear'."

“What?"

“You were gonna ask what it says. ’s what it says."

Jake snorts. “Not in Hebrew it doesn’t."

“In Aramaic. You speak Hebrew?"

“Well, I went to Hebrew school. So, no. You speak Aramaic?"

John laughs, and runs his hand along Jake’s shoulder. “On occasion."

Jake slides up the bed, till they’re approximately face to face. “Why?"

"Occupational necessity."

“As what, a Middle Eastern prophet?"

“Somethin’ like,” John says, and leans up for another quick kiss. 

Jake pulls back. His heart’s beating a little fast, still, and where most people have a fight or flight response, he has babble or panic, and panicking after sex is kind of a buzzkill. “You good?” he says. “You need anything? I’ve got water, and, maybe, orange juice, though it’s probably expired, and—"

John groans, reaches up to tangle his fingers in Jake’s hair, and drags him back down.

“You talk too much,” John says, when they’re done with that kiss.

Jake has to laugh. “Oh, I talk too much? Really, Mr. _Fuck Me Harder, **Detective** , Fuck Me Like You Bloody Well **Mean** It_? _I_ talk too much?"

John rolls his eyes, and smacks the back of Jake's head. “Don’t be a fucking prat about it.”

“I don’t even know what that means,” Jake says, lightly, though he does, actually; he’s watched BBC America on occasion. He flops down onto his back. His heart’s not quite back to normal, so he tries again: “I’m going to have to wash my sheets, huh?"

John gives a lazy, sleepy chuckle, and rolls over onto his side. “You planning on doin’ it now?"

“No.”

“Then shut up a bit and let us sleep, yeah?"

Ah, so he’s planning on staying. Cool. Cool, yeah.

Jake leans back against his pillow. 

His heart rate settles.

He starts to feel cold.

He glances over; John’s curled up a little, looking strangely small, and very still. 

Jake thinks about it for a while. Reaches over, rests his palm over John’s side, and waits.

It doesn’t take long.

“Yeah, all right,” John mumbles, and Jake grins: his preference may be for little spoon, generally, but John honestly kind of seems like he needs it more right now. He tucks up right behind him, bare chest to bare back, and wraps his arm around John’s waist. He presses a kiss to the back of John’s neck. John makes a strange, slightly mocking sound, but keeps still.

“This is nice,” says Jake, because he’s a dick.

“Shut the hell up,” says John, because he’s a bigger one.

*

**Author's Note:**

> This was written under the title "boom, bisexualed”, because I’m hilarious, but Jake’s canonically a big Taylor Swift fan ([SHE MAKES ALL OF US FEEL THINGS](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0wGOy-85YWk)), and [Welcome to New York](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bzr5VtFvSyw) has _that line_ , so.
> 
> Also, everything I know about darts, Hebrew, and Aramaic (which is to say: almost nothing) comes from casual googling, so. (Seriously I had to go [to Reddit](http://www.reddit.com/r/Constantine/comments/2mako1/what_is_the_hebrew_tattooed_on_john_constantines/) to figure out what John's tattoo might _possibly_ say and I haven't actually been able to find secondary confirmation on it.)


End file.
